Bees
by readymachine
Summary: Stiles is drunk, he decides, and he's aching for comfort and that's why he leans against her touch and presses his cheek against her collarbone.


Stiles is drunk. Very, very drunk.

He stumbles awkwardly into the doorframe of the living room, reflexively moving away from an equally drunk couple wandering towards the kitchen. The noise in here is too loud, the walls vibrating from the pulse of the music. His eyes slowly scan the mass of people in the large space, searching for a flash of red. He finds Scott on the stairs, his hands resting on Kira's hips. He's smiling down at her, his face relaxed and open. Stiles feels a hard tug somewhere inside of him. He's happy for his friend, of course, but…

He shakes his head, then immediately regrets his decision as a stab of pain flicks across his eyes. With a groan, he walks into the throng of people, steadily making his way towards the den. He hates the pulsing crowd around him full of unfamiliar faces. He hates this strange house and the shitty music and he hates how drunk he is because this is a really shitty goddamn feeling and it's making everything worse. He hadn't wanted to come out, but Scott had pushed him and he just couldn't say no.

" _One last party before college,"_ The Alpha had said. _"The whole pack will be there."_

Except the whole pack _wasn't_ there because some of them were _dead_ and some of them had _left_ and _where the fuck was Lydia_? Stiles feels his breath hitch in his chest, his thoughts overlapping together and filling his head. He's gotten too drunk. He shouldn't have taken the fifth shot but he was hoping it would make the bees in his head stop swarming but he realizes now that bees live on dark rum and he had just given them more fuel. He feels claustrophobic and suffocated. His hands are shaking. Breathing is becoming hard.

And suddenly a familiar hand is around his wrist and he feels a calm wash over him. He turns, a relieved sigh puffing out through his lips. Lydia looks up at him, her brow crinkled with concern.

"You found me," Stiles slurs, his mouth splitting into a smile. Lydia reaches up a hand, smoothing it over his forehead and resting it on his cheek. He leans into her touch, her hand cool against his burning skin.

"Let's go outside," She replies, removing her hand from his face. Stiles nods, still tingling from her touch. Lydia heads for the back door, leading Stiles by his wrist the whole way. He trots behind her, thankful that she's leading him away from the noise. They reach French doors leading out onto a patio with a few pieces of furniture scattered around. Stiles had expected the yard and small pool to be filled with tipsy seniors, but he's pleased to see the place deserted. Lydia guides him to a lounge chair and he slumps into it, leaning back against the sticky plastic. Lydia drags another chair close to him and pulls it next to his, perching herself on the end of it.

Stiles searches her face with half-lidded eyes. She's beautiful, as always, with perfect make up and a soft expression on her round face. She's changed so much since they were kids—hell, they've changed so much since sophomore year when he was just a nobody and she was the girl that he was hopelessly, uselessly in love with. She's got a look behind her eyes now that he doesn't know if anyone else can see. It's the kind of look that he maybe knows too well.

"I'm drunk," He blurts out. Lydia smiles at him, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Very, very drunk."

"I know," She replies. "I watched you take three shots."

"It was five," He holds up five splayed fingers for emphasis.

"I arrived fashionably late."

Stiles smiles at her, then closes his eyes and leans his head back. He feels a lump form somewhere in his throat. He doesn't want her to ask the question he knows she's going to ask because he can't lie to her because it's _Lydia_ and he doesn't know if he can talk about it right now and—

"What's wrong, Stiles?"

 _Fuck_.

Stiles opens his eyes and looks at his hands. He flexes them in front of him, picking at one of his gnawed fingernails with his thumb.

"I'm drunk," He mumbles.

Lydia reaches out and covers his restless hands with her own. Her nail polish is vivid red. The color of blood. Stiles feels sick.

"Stiles, don't hide things from me," She says, her voice clear. "I'm your anchor, remember?"

Stiles remembers. But that's part of the problem, isn't it? He sucks a breath in and holds it.

"It's June 22nd," He finally says, the air rushing out of him.

"Oh!" Comprehension draws over Lydia's features. "Oh. I didn't even realize, I'm so sorry."

Stiles offers her a small smile in forgiveness. He can feel the bees buzzing in his head.

"I thought it'd be easier this year," He manages. His voice is small in his throat. He hates this. "It's supposed to get easier, isn't it? But it's been ten fucking years and it's not. It's still hard. Everyone says it's supposed to get easier but they're all fucking liars and I'm drunk and I thought it would help make it easier but I was wrong."

He sits up and turns towards her, his limbs awkward and heavy under the weight of the alcohol. Her fingers over his open slightly and he threads his fingers through the gaps. Her hands are still cold. Her hands are always cold.

"I can't talk to Scott about it because he doesn't _get_ it and I thought I would have Malia to talk to about it but she left and I can't talk to Dad about it because I can't stand to bring that look up in his face but I can't get it out of my head, you know? Because she looked at me and she knew me for that one second—she _saw_ me—and she smiled but then she started to seize and—and—"

He keeps his head down as he speaks, trying to focus on the glare of the house lights off her blood red nail polish as the words spill out of his mouth. His breath finally catches and he jams his eyes shut and closes his mouth and he tries his hardest not to let anything out. _Just focus on your breathing_ , he thinks. _Just breathe_.

Lydia's hands leave his grasp and slide up to cradle his face. He opens his eyes wide, surprised at the touch. Her face is so close to his, her eyes wide, her lips parted. He remembers their first kiss and feels his face flush at the memory. He forces himself to meet her eyes and to really focus on them and not her red, red lips or the feeling of her hands on his face and certainly not the way she smells like cinnamon. But Lydia stays still, her eyes searching his face as the crease between her eyebrows gets deeper and deeper.

"She said your name," Lydia says slowly. Her breath smells like honey whiskey and spearmint gum and Stiles is so shocked by what she's said that it takes a moment to register it.

"How did you—?" He chokes.

"I can hear it," She whispers. Her eyes dart from his eyes to his lips to the smattering of moles across his cheeks. "It's in you. I can hear it coming from _in_ you."

"I…What?" Stiles asks, alarmed. He wants to pull away from her but he can't seem to move. "What are you hearing?"

Lydia leans in so close that Stiles can feel her eyelashes brush his skin.

" _Przemysław_ ," She whispers against his cheek.

Stiles jerks backwards, limbs flailing and heart pounding. He looks at her wildly, shaking. No one's said his name in ten years—not correctly, at least. Most people give up after the z.

"How do you know what she said?" He's breathless, his chest tight and aching.

Lydia shakes her head, confusion apparent on her face.

"I can just hear it. I can hear her."

Stiles stands up unsteadily and paces a small line.

"I'm sorry," She says from the chair. She's clasped her hands together tightly in her lap. "I'm sorry, normally I can tune things like this out but from you it's just so loud."

"What's that mean?" Stiles yells, his voice louder than he means it to be. He's unsettled and he runs his fingers through his hair trying to get control of himself. He's definitely going to be sick.

Lydia stands in a flash and strides towards him, closing the distance between them before he can react. She takes his hands in hers and holds them both up to his chest. He can see the fabric of his shirt jumping from the force of his beating heart.

"Stiles, calm down," She tells him softly, staring up at him with her wide eyes. Stiles can only moan in response, his eyes closed. This is too weird. He can handle homicidal lizard-men. He can handle murderous packs of werewolves and crazy dark Druids. He can even handle an evil fox spirit taking over his body (though he still wakes up screaming from _those_ nightmares). But this? This is the line.

" _Przemysław_ ," Lydia says. Stiles stills under her touch, finally meeting her gaze. He hates and loves the way his name sounds coming out of her mouth. It had been so long since he'd heard it.

"I can hear her because she loved you, alright?" Lydia continues, a fierce edge to her voice. Stiles's heart stutters in his chest, heat flooding down to settle somewhere in his stomach. "I can hear her in you because she is a _part_ of you. She'll always be a part of you, Stiles. You can never lose that piece of her."

Stiles is crying before he realizes it. Lydia slides her hands out of his and guides him back to the chairs, one hand around his waist. He collapses heavily into the chair, sobbing in earnest now. Lydia moves to sit behind him, one hand moving rhythmically up and down his back. Stiles is drunk, he decides, and he's aching for comfort and _that's_ why he leans against her touch and presses his cheek against her collarbone. Lydia responds immediately, snaking one hand around to curl in his short hair while the other slowly pushes his hair back from his hot forehead. She's making soft shushing noises and he can hear the hum of them rumbling through her chest.

He cries for years, he thinks. Planets die and are reborn. Stars explode. Entire universes disappear. But, eventually he stops crying. He doesn't pick his head up just yet, but instead he relaxes against Lydia's soft body. Her heartbeat is strong and quick in his ear and he thinks that he could probably stay like this forever but he thinks she's probably uncomfortable with all 147 pounds of him pressed against her so he sniffs once and picks himself up, wiping his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

"Sorry," He coughs, his voice thick. He can't quite look Lydia in the face. It surprises him when she reaches a hand up to cradle his face. Her thumb runs gently over his cheek, still sticky from his tears. When he looks up at her she's got a small smile playing on her face.

"What—?" He starts, but he doesn't finish because Lydia leans forwards and presses her lips against the corner of his mouth. It's over before he can respond and Lydia is standing over him, adjusting her top and tossing her red hair over her shoulder. She holds her hand out.

"Come on," She smiles. Stiles could get lost in her dimples. "Let's go get you some water."

Stiles smiles back and takes her hand, standing on shaky legs. Their fingers intertwine as she leads him back into the house, Stiles closing the French doors behind them and finally clearing his head.


End file.
